Chapter 17 #3
On cue, Bes places his bad arm around my waist, giving me no chance to catch my breath. His hand flexes, as if he can’t help it, his thumb inching up along my ribcage. His eyes warm while capturing mine wholly. My entire body stalls for a moment, then lights itself on fire. I can barely breathe.
When the bandleader starts to scat, the instruments follow suit into wonderfully-calculated madness.
The temperature in the room rises, and the dancers around us descend into fervent euphoria.
Shuffling in pairs across the floor, they swing out their legs and arms, women’s glittering dresses shimmering in the firelight.
It only makes me want to join them all the more.
To forget that I imagined Ingrid earlier, and recapture what it’s like to be carefree, even if only for this one moment.
Right as I think this, Bes spins me out and back into him. A laugh escapes my throat and I throw my head back.
On the way down, our gazes catch, and though he continues to move with the rhythm of the music, his attention holds me captive.
The thought of pressing my body flush to his—of kissing his full lips with mine—unexpectedly and dangerously crosses my mind.
As much as he angers me at times, I want him. More than I’ve ever wanted anyone
Bes shifts into me, his one hand curling tighter around my waist, his attentive gaze sliding to my lips—
The music quiets, leaving only the tss of the cymbal and allowing the saxophone to take center-stage. The solo.
Bes recognizes it too; he pulls back. I swallow hard, disappointment quickly dousing the growing heat inside me.
My gaze flicks over to the booth where we left Cec: a woman has already approached him. A strappy red sparkling dress hugs her curved frame and brushes the floor, complementing her gold-sparkling heels.
Her voluminous russet locks, however, hide her face from us.
Sliding into the spot I occupied only moments ago, she leans into Cec, whispering in his ear.
A seriousness has overtaken his expression as he concentrates intently on whatever intelligence this strange woman—who I can only assume to be The Maestro—passes on to him.
The music crescendos when the other instruments rejoin.
More of Ugo’s nonsensical scatting follows soon after.
I glance up at Bes, seeing he’s watching the exchange as well.
I’m not sure how long we have until the woman finishes speaking with Cec, but this is the first time I’ve seen Bes actually loosen up.
As much as I’ve told myself to be another person, that I’m running out of time to obtain my own information, I don’t want to waste this moment.
Not when it’s the last one we might be afforded for God knows how long.
I reach up and brush the side of his face with my fingertips, forcing him to look at me. His cheek is warm and sprinkled lightly with stubble, his eyes widening in surprise when they meet mine.
Standing on my tiptoes, I speak into his ear, my chest grazing his; he sucks in a shallow breath through his nose. “I hope to God you know the Charleston.”
I pull back, take both of his hands in mine, and move my feet to the steps, shaking my backside to the rhythm. The Amulet of Amun gently thumps against my spine, reminding me of its constant presence.
At first, Bes merely stares at me. A tiny seed of doubt plants itself inside my stomach, but I refuse to nurture it. If he doesn’t want to dance with me, that’s his loss. Although I am disappointed: despite my best efforts, he remains a stoic constant in a sea of roiling ecstasy.
I lean in again, closer this time, and his grip tightens around me once more. Unexpected warmth pools in my core.
“We’re supposed to be blending in, remember?” I murmur, our lips mere inches apart. I pull back, keeping my eyes on him and raising a brow as I continue dancing.
After a few more agonizing seconds, he gives me a crooked half-smile. I nearly stop breathing from the sight. Tightening his grasp on my hands, he moves his own feet in the same rhythm as mine. Relief and elation war inside me.
I know I’m forgetting some of the steps, but Bes and I move so well together; we could be making up an entirely new dance and no one would be the wiser.
He grips my hands tighter and tugs, spinning me into him.
The world whirls around me until my back becomes flush against him.
He wraps one of my own hands around my waist and the other across my chest. I gasp at the contact, at his lips near my ear when he dips his head.
We swing back and forth with the rhythm for a few heated seconds.
His warmth presses against me. God, this feels so right. I swear I might burst if I don’t turn around to face him—when he spins me out again. Some part of me is disappointed, but I quickly get over it.
The band has now slid into a loose interpretation of the song. Nearly everyone in the club is on the dance floor or clapping to the beat from their tables, hollering.
Bes draws me in close and speaks into my ear. “Why did you stop dancing before? When you were with that other man?”
I smile lazily, murmuring, “Jealous?”
He doesn’t react beyond the slight tick of his jaw. “You looked as if you’d seen an apparition.”
The fire in my veins cools at the memory. “I swore I saw Ingrid, but I must’ve been mistaken.”
Bes glances around—
A glass bottle shatters loudly over by the bar, prompting shouts of confusion. I swivel in the direction of the sound.
When a gun fires into the crowd.
The sound explodes inside the club. I duck instinctively as Bes throws his arms around me, his bad arm wrapped around my waist, the other hand cupped over my head.
The music comes to a stuttered halt. Puzzled murmurs twist into screams of terror, barely cutting through the awful, sharp ringing in my ears.
I glance over at Cec—finding The Maestro slumped across the table. Crimson pools around her locks, spilling across the table; her brown eyes and full-lipped mouth hang open in astonishment.
Oh God, Cec. Her blood is spattered across his face in red freckles, staining his tuxedo as if he spilled red wine on it. Shock scores his features, clearly rendering him immobile.
Without another moment’s pause, Bes and I rush over to him. Bes hands his cousin’s cane to me and then grabs his arm from the other side, dragging him out of the booth. I pick my switchblade from his pocket. I never want to be parted from you again. He doesn’t so much as flinch at the intrusion.
Taking in the chaos ensuing around us, Bes runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck. I thought we had more time.”
More time? Goddammit.
“You knew this was going to happen.” It’s not a question.
“I considered it a possibility. But we’ll have to schedule the scolding for later.” Bes maintains his hold on Cec’s arm as a couple runs right past our booth. “We need to get to the other exit, now.”
My heart leaps for a moment. I knew there was another way out of here.
I glance around the club. The patrons who were dancing mere seconds ago are now clamoring for the exit, crowding the narrow corridor in violent panic.
Screams fill the large room as what I now recognize to be Blackshirts cut through the crowd.
They’re barking orders in Italian, though few obey.
Those closest to the Blackshirts meet the sharp ends of the knives and switchblades gripped in their hands, spilling blood onto the floor.
Almost as if they’re not trying to formally arrest anyone…
Every scream echoes afresh in my ears. Breathing hard, I force myself to look away from where the slick blood of harmless party-goers coats the blue-and-yellow checkered floor. Moments ago, they were safe, tucked away in the one place they could escape Mussolini’s tyranny.
Yet, it came for them anyway.
Bes places himself in my line of sight so all I can see is him. Not the needless carnage unfolding before me, or the evil men creating it. Only Bes.
“Miss Hawkins, we need to go. Now.”
I stare down at my father’s switchblade in my trembling hands and take a deep breath, tasting gun powder and iron in the back of my throat. I might be sick, I think, before steeling my nerves.
If you stay here, you’ll die.
Peering up at Bes with renewed confidence, I reach for his outstretched hand—
A dark figure flashes behind his left shoulder. A Blackshirt.
In one fluid motion, I push Bes aside with my left hand while pressing the release button of the switchblade with my right. I lunge for them, a cry releasing from my throat as the Amulet of Amun heats against the small of my back.
Before the Blackshirt can raise his own weapon, I plunge my steel into the side of his neck.